


Cut With Our Own Dust

by freakylemurcat



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bag End, Cultural Differences, Kink Meme, Lust at First Sight, M/M, One Night Stands, Pre-Quest, Size Difference, Smoking, Thorin is a smooth mofo, Thorin's judgment skills need work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:41:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2833505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freakylemurcat/pseuds/freakylemurcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been a long time since anyone had invited Thorin to bed, and a longer time yet since he had allowed himself the luxury of accepting. Now, on the edge of extreme privation, he rather felt like a quick tumble would be welcome, especially with someone he probably would never see again. </p><p>Enter Bilbo Baggins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> From this prompt:  
> 'When Thorin sees Bilbo for the first time he knows he must have him. Looking at the frail little thing he already knows the hobbit won't be joining in their quest, so Thorin must seduce him before their departure in the morning.
> 
> I just really love the image of Thorin defiling the purity of Bilbo's bed by ravishing him in it. (Did the way I phrase that even make sense? Oh well.)
> 
> To his great surprise Bilbo still comes after them the next morning, and joins the quest.'

In retrospect, it had been unwise to depend wholly on Gandalf the Grey. The wizard was known for moments of brilliance, but the fact was that Thorin had witnessed but a very few. This situation was certainly not one of them.

This ‘burglar’ he had located for the quest…

The misgivings had begun when the directions had arrived at Thorin’s ears. He had passed through the Shire before, and nowhere had he noticed a single creature that would be considered useful on a journey such as this. But Gandalf had been insistent that he knew who he was choosing, and the Quest was almost doable.

Of course, he himself had struggled to get help, but those who had agreed were all doughty and strong and, in some cases, a little desperate. He had vetted them all personally, and had had enough time away from them since to forget a lot of their foibles; now he considered them amongst the best he could have gotten. So he had sighed, shrugged and set out to the Shire.

Thorin had wandered through the strange little land with its round doors and bright gardens for a long while before the carousing noises of a group of dwarves had drifted to him on a light breeze. He had tied his pony by a nice little field – and with a short enough lead that it couldn’t reach the handsome crop of begonias someone was nurturing outside their little round-doored burrow – and trudged up a small hill towards the source of the sound.

This door was a prim green, with the neat rune that was Gandalf’s sign scratched into the paintwork. Judging by the sheen of the paint and the well-varnished doorsills, Thorin suspected that the owner of the door would be very peeved about the damage if he found out. He knocked with the handle of his sword, to make sure he would be heard above the racket his company was making, and did his best to suppress a smirk at the silence that abruptly spread through the house.

Whoever came to the door did so slowly, and cracked the door only a sliver before they pulled it open wholly. On the doormat on the other side was one of the creatures that lived in this rolling countryside.

Thorin simply couldn’t stop his eyebrows from creeping up his forehead slightly at the sight of the creature on the other side, bobbing and bowing on the doormat. It was one of the small people that lived in this rolling countryside, Hobbits they called themselves, and a prime example at that.

Hobbits tended to a size smaller than dwarves – something which Thorin approved of, none of this ridiculous lankiness than men and elves gloated in – and often tended to roundness overall, with happy, plump faces and heads covered in curls. They also had some sort of pathologic resistance to shoes, and had interestingly oversized feet with thatches of hair on the tops. This one, Thorin noted, had sandy brown hair, matched by the curls atop his feet. His toes were wiggling nervously on the doormat, and it was only when Thorin met his worried gaze that he realised he had been staring for quite some time.

 _This_ was clearly the person Gandalf had chosen to be their burglar, Thorin could just tell.

“Gandalf!” he said, “I thought you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way, twice. I wouldn’t have found it at all had it not been for that mark on the door.”

“Mark?” the Hobbit twittered; Thorin’s gaze swung back to him like iron to a lodestone. As he had predicted, his brow was creased in an irritable fashion. “There’s no mark on that door. It was painted a week ago.”

 

* * *

 

The evening did not improve much after that.

 

* * *

 

The food had been welcome, and the little tunnel had been warm and comfortably furnished. Bilbo Baggins had done his best to host admirably, but spent much of his time chiding dwarves for their lack of manners or staring about wildly. Occasionally he would meet Thorin’s gaze, hold it for a second and then look away again

So Bilbo Baggins was no burglar, that much was clear. He was too small, too frail, too pampered; not the sort of person who could last in the wild, let alone face down a dragon. But he was a handsome little creature, all curly hair and twitchy little mannerisms and a pursed mouth. Thorin found his gaze wandering to him more often than he might care to admit, throwing considering glances his way and wondering if he was sturdier than Thorin’s dwarf-accustomed eyes would realise.

Perhaps his firm limbs and padded behind would suggest a less physically fragile being, but his reaction to the thought of stealing from the dragon definitely shows he lacked the mind of a warrior. Once he was picked off the carpet and revived with tea, the hobbit remained pale-faced and less inclined to bleat irritably at them than before. Eventually he disappeared altogether into his warren, to Thorin’s mild regret. But the Company’s relentless cheer and the fresh barrel of ale which had been tapped specially for him prove a worthy distraction, and he forgot his worries for a few hours, until midnight was nearly upon them.

Thorin excused himself from his Company, and padded to a side room, cracked open a window and lit his pipe up. He stood there by the window for a long time, enjoying having a calm smoke for a while before his attention wandered to the room about him. It was clearly some sort of study, with a hefty desk scattered with quills and ink and the contract abandoned across the chair. There was also the hobbit’s dressing gown, draped over the back of the chair, and Thorin reached for it thoughtfully. It was made of a heavy patched velvets and brocades, and smelt pleasantly of the hobbit’s own pipe and washing soap. There was a smartly embroidered handkerchief in the breast pocket.

No creature with a dressing gown like this would survive a quest.

For a long while, Thorin paced the floorboards of the study and smoked himself thoughtful. The Company continued to carouse for another hour or so, but then their movements became quieter and the cracks and crashes a touch more deliberate. They would be repairing what damages they had caused; no good dwarf would dare leave a host’s home in worse state than had been offered to them and hobbit furniture had never been designed with raucous dwarves in mind.

Could hobbits even get raucous? Thorin couldn’t imagine such a thing. He entertained the thought until Balin peeked about the door frame – round doors? who designed round doors? – and announced they were turning in for the night.

“There are some unused rooms about the other side of this home. A right warren of a place,” he said, “Will you take one before we set off tomorrow? It’s a long journey.”

Thorin levelled his gaze on Balin and couldn’t stop the smile that rose unbidden to his face. “I will take myself to bed at a reasonable time, you mother hen.”

“Just making sure.” The older dwarf paused as he turned to leave. “A pity about the burglar.”

“Better not to have him at all, than to lose him before we even come in sight of the Mountain.”

“True.” Balin tucked his hands behind his back, as he was wont to do before launching to an explanation. “But hobbits are light on their feet and quick about themselves. Gandalf has said to leave the Contract on the table and we shall see come the morning.”

Thorin snorted. “Well, perhaps we shall. Good night, Balin.”

“Good night, Thorin.” Balin trod off.

Thorin listened as the creaks and thumps of dwarf feet quieted to the groans of wooden beams settling, and ventured forth from the study. He wound through the house until the heat from the embers of the fireplace lured him in and sat in the smaller of the chairs carefully; it creaked a touch under his weight, but nothing snapped and he settled down properly. There was a range of knickknacks and fussy little candlesticks on the mantelpiece, along with a battered tin that looked well out of place. Thorin stood to grab it and was well pleased to discover it was full of pipeweed; his own supply was fast running out and this was fresh and pungent smelling even in the tin. He knocked the ash out of his pipe into the embers of the fireplace, and sat back down to refill it. Before he could though, an almost imperceptible creak and a gasp caught his ear, and he turned about abruptly.

Bilbo Baggins was standing in the strange round archway, as if frozen. Thorin watched him for a moment, and then went back to tamping pipeweed into the bowl. He had suspected the hobbit would skitter away as soon as he could, but the sound of footsteps approached rather than retreated, only audible for Thorin listening for them.

“I had expected you to have gone… to bed,” said Bilbo, glancing back from where he had come like he was instantly regretting leaving his room.

“I keep odd hours,” said Thorin, leaning back in the chair and reaching for his pipe again. “I took a pinch of your pipeweed; I hope you do not mind.”

The Hobbit’s eyes narrow sharply, but then he shrugged and flopped into the other chair, the oversized one that Gandalf had sat in before. “It’s no bother to me.” He twiddled his thumbs for a moment and then fished in the pockets of his sleep clothes to bring out his own pipe, looking about the mantel for the little tin.

“Ah, here.” Thorin held it out. Bilbo’s fingers brushed his own hand as he took the tin – his hand shook only a little, and his fingers were slim and soft, though his nails were bitten almost down to the quick.

The creature’s nose wriggled as he opened the tin and surveyed the level that has been removed, but he said nothing and filled his pipebowl as Thorin lit up and enjoyed the first burning taste on his tongue. After a few moments there was another flare of a match and Bilbo gave a huge sigh, as if relieved.

Thorin was mildly concerned that the hobbit would start to bleat at him, twittering about the company imposing on him and the ridiculousness of the request they had made, but the hobbit merely pursed his lips about the stem of his pipe and breathed out smoke regularly. There was little light now, except from the intermittent burn of the pipes and the glow from the embers in the hearth, and Bilbo’s profile was cast in a ruddy light when Thorin glanced at him. He still appeared fraught, brow crumpled and lips thinned, and Thorin found it peculiar that there isn’t the slightest fluff on the hobbit’s cheeks, when otherwise he appeared to be of an age when he should have a full beard. Part of him would rather like to stroke the soft skin of the prospective burglar’s jawline, to see what pampered plushness would feel like against his callouses, but he could only imagine the ineffective rage if he dares.

It was almost a shame, Thorin thought, blowing a smoke ring that whirls into the hearth. It had been a long time since anyone had invited him to bed, and a longer time yet since he had allowed himself the luxury. Now, on the edge of extreme privation, he rather felt like a quick tumble would be welcome, especially with someone he probably would never see again. He glanced back across, and the hobbit abruptly stiffened and pointedly turned his head in the other direction, as if his bookcases were about to collapse.

Oh, so maybe not so much a shame then… Mr Baggins is a curious creature in more than one way. Thorin eases into a more companionable position on his slightly small chair and blows a second smoke ring.

“You were fairly shocked when I appeared on your doorstep.” Thorin watches his smoke ring throw itself over the head of a porcelain elf and smirks to himself. “Had you never seen a dwarf before this evening?”

“Oh, I’ve seen some, of course. Heading west to the mountains, people say, journeying through the North Farthing.” Bilbo coughed quietly into his hand and sucked purposefully on his pipe, cheeks hollowing. “Never up close of course. You all gave me a bit of a fright.”

Thorin stared at the hobbit for a while, considering his sharp, bright features and the low gleam of the embers shining amber on his hair. “Would you like to get a bit closer?”

Bilbo choked noisily on his pipe, going scarlet in the process. It took him a long while to regain his breath, but Thorin was patient and the pipeweed had a good burn to it, so he waited. When the hobbit did manage to get his breath back, he stared at Thorin for a good while; the Dwarf made sure to tilt his chin up regally and meet the baffled gaze with his own smoky one. There was no point in taking such a chance then letting his quarry slip away out of confusion after all.

“I…” Bilbo started, blinking furiously. He tried to perform a subtle once over of the dwarf sitting beside him, but his eyes were so wide there was little hope of succeeding – Thorin didn’t even bother to smother the smirk that had crept onto his face at the sight.

On the other hand he struggled very hard indeed to quell his surprise as the hobbit squared his neat shoulders, raised his chin defiantly and said, with only the smallest of trembles in his voice, “Yes, if you are offering, Thorin Oakenshield.”


	2. Chapter 2

The hobbit’s bedroom was much the same as the rest of the house, with wooden floors and low beams. Thorin must bow his head to get through the doorway as the hobbit patters about him, a flitting bird to his still mountain. He watched, amused, as Bilbo straightened the coverlet, rearranged tchotchkes and lit candles, all while pointedly not looking at the dwarf standing on his bedside rug.

While it was entertaining to watch the creature fuss about, Thorin did rather have something else planned for him. Supposing to snatch the hobbit up whenever his arms were freed, Thorin shucked his outer jacket and threw it across the room to land on a delicate chair. Almost immediately Bilbo’s amber gaze snapped across and attempted to spear him through; Thorin suspected it was the carelessness rather than his act of disrobing that gets him attention, but it would do.

Now, in candlelight, Bilbo Baggins was golden and it stirred some deep lust in Thorin’s core that he could not pretend to understand. The hobbit was sharp and delicate to his dwarven ideals, but Thorin was still struck by how much he wanted him right there and then. He paced forward into Bilbo’s space and snaked one arm about his waist, pleased first by how he was able to loom over the little man and second by how Bilbo stepped forward in turn, until he was nearly standing atop of Thorin’s boots.

“I have never been in a hobbit hole,” he said, leaning down so his cheek brushed against Bilbo’s. The hobbit gave a little shudder at the friction of stubble on his skin.

“ _Smial_ ,” said Bilbo, voice an interesting mix of breathy and peeved.

Thorin smirked, and continued, “How sturdy would these walls be? We may not be intent on sleeping, but the other are.”

“Sturdy enough for me,” said Bilbo, rubbing closer still. He was a pleasant soft furnace against Thorin’s front. “I might hear goings on from the other end of the house, but if you cannot hear your company snoring then…”

Thorin listened for a moment, and sure enough he could not hear even the sonorous bass snores that Balin traditionally produced. Ignoring the round doors, he was becoming more and more impressed with hobbit dwellings, the tunnels and the delving. It was quite impressive that these little rural fellows could manage a delving at all.

It was Bilbo who made the first move, leaning upwards suggestively while Thorin was thinking deeply. There was the brush of lips against his own, devoid of the usual rasp that came from kissing folk with beards, and he could not help but respond, settling his hands on a well-wrapped up waist and leaning down into the contact. Bilbo’s lips were chapped and bitten, but no worse off than Thorin’s weather worn mouth, and the incessant twittering had clearly trained a nimble tongue.

As it appeared, the hobbit way of kissing was much the same as the dwarf fashion – the only thing missing was the tangle of beards perhaps, but Thorin could not say that he overly missed it. It was pleasant enough to rub his stubbled cheek to a smooth one, and to press kisses to a pale throat unguarded by a thick beard or even a handsome jewelled chain. The hobbit swallowed as he nuzzled into the angle of neck and shoulder, and then squeaked when Thorin purposefully rubbed his cheek up to the soft jawline. Bilbo’s skin flushed a pretty pink, but did not appear put off – certainly not as he started to fumble with Thorin’s outer tunic. Thorin had been long entranced and happy enough to acquiesce; he was not normally a dwarf for petting like tweens, but Bilbo’s plush mouth and smooth golden-hued skin had been enough to rouse his cock already.

Thorin was mildly afeared, even in his lust, that he would destroy the hobbit’s persnickety little buttons and clasps, and so encouraged him to undo them himself while Thorin tackled his own bulky buckles. Bilbo whisked everything but his short trousers off with admirable speed before Thorin had even managed to loosen the laces at the breast of his tunic, which he no longer found that important to remove. The hobbit was stout and smooth and almost hairless, bar the patches under his arms and the trail down his belly. Thorin rather liked it in the curious manner he liked the hobbit’s bare jaw, and could not resist touching with his hands and mouth until Bilbo was shivering and gasping, easy to back up until his knees collapse against the edge of the bed. Once there he stayed put, eyes widened to jet beads in the candlelight and hungrily watching Thorin wrench his tunic and undershirt off and toe away his heavy boots. Then he prowled forward and caught the gaping mouth with his own lips, humming happily as Bilbo pawed at him almost frantically, hands pressed to Thorin’s broad chest and firm stomach.

The mattress was plush when he settled down onto it, rocking unsteadily as it compressed under his weight – it was far softer than anything he had slept on, possibly ever – and then the frame creaked excitedly as Bilbo clambered atop his lap without so much as a how-you-do. Thorin continued to be very much pleased, especially when Bilbo settled his weight down firmly and Thorin gasped into the hobbit’s mouth as the plush backside rocked down against his cock. The pleasure that had been awoken with lips upon his own was now firmly ablaze, and he hitched his hips up to grin when Bilbo gasped in return.

The bed creaked under them again, as Thorin continued to roll his hips. “We have covered the topic of your walls, but how sturdy is this bed frame?”

“Trust me!” gasped Bilbo, catching a hold of the braids that framed Thorin’s face. “It is sturdy enough for what we want!”

It would be surprising to some to know that Thorin Oakenshield rather enjoyed flirting with his conquests. Since he had encouraged the encounter to this stage where there appeared to be little turning back, he could well afford a little teasing. “And what is it that you want, Mister Baggins?”

“Oh, you know fine well!” bleated Bilbo, cheeks pinkening even as he rubbed his bare torso against Thorin’s well-furred and wider chest.

“I think I would rather you spell it out as such,” rumbled Thorin.

Bilbo looked as displeased as he could while sitting on someone’s lap, but pursed his lips and developed a coy look. He was near a different creature to the twittering hobbit who had been so concerned with his crockery. “Why don’t we move this forward? And cut the teasing.”

“Teasing is often the best part.”

“I prefer my bed sports more in depth, as it were.” Bilbo fixed Thorin with a fiery stare. “There is oil in the bedside table. Would you care to fetch it?” He hopped off the dwarf’s lap and Thorin smirked even as he did what he was told, and went to search through the drawer, which threatened to pop right off the runners when he dragged it open.

This straitlaced little creature _did_ have a jar of oil by his bedside table. Thorin thought about mocking surprise for a moment, and then decided not – hobbits seemed to be, by nature, profuse in all things. This turned out to be the best choice he might have made in a while – when he turned back, his gracious host was standing in a puddle of corderoys and cottons, naked as the day he was born. There was a moment of stunned confusion, and then Thorin found himself moving forward without meaning to, prowling footsteps taking him on a circular path about Bilbo, as the hobbit drew himself up and started to purse his lips like he might complain. Thorin headed him off at the pass by ducking in for another kiss, still as searing and sweet as the first time. He thought they might get lost in the contact again, for the clock on the mantelpiece had shown the time as nearly an hour past what he had assumed, and had to force himself to back away again.

The hobbit was still smooth and plump, and his behind was well worth a second look without the camouflage of his corduroys. This wasn’t a creature made to bounce along on an uncomfortable saddle for weeks on end. He was more a creature to bounce on Thorin’s lap for the rest of the night, for pleasure rather than any true purpose.

Although it would be hard to ignore the determination in his eyes when he followed Thorin, letting himself be lured back to his bed. Perhaps Thorin was being driven back instead. It mattered very little when the dwarf ended up with exactly what he wanted; Bilbo Baggins climbing back into his lap and working on the laces of his breeches with nimble fingers. Even the lightest touch through the thick layers of cloth made Thorin’s breath catch in his chest, and he carded his free hand through the amber curls on the hobbit’s head to distract himself. They were softer than dwarf locks, but caught about his thick fingers in a pleasing fashion; when he scratched down, the hobbit shivered and shuddered into the touch like a cat and his fingers squeezed just a bit tighter.

“Investigate a little further,” Thorin urged, surprised at how husky his voice sounds. Bilbo did as he was told, rocking backwards to create a little distance between them so he could uncover Thorin’s achingly hard cock. The hobbit’s eyes widened almost comically, and Thorin was torn between amusement and smugness. Hobbits had more than enough going for them – Bilbo’s evidence was rosy pink and erect up against the curve of his belly – but dwarves were built broad and thick in all respects, and even other dwarves found Thorin impressive in this degree. Bilbo stroked him almost reverentially, his fingers barely able to reach about the girth.

Thorin almost thought to offer that they lay together in some other way – the hobbit had pudgy thighs that felt as though they would be velvety and taut about his cock, if slicked – but then he was pushed flat down onto the bed and the oil was lifted from his lax fingers. Bilbo spilled a generous amount over his fingers and handed the bottle back; Thorin slicked his own hand, recorked the bottle and threw it carelessly to the bedside table. He stroked his own cock a few times, until he was dripping and as slick as he could be, before taking hold of Bilbo instead. On purpose, he picked an unstable pattern, so the hobbit could never really achieve a satisfying rhythm with his own fingers, no matter how swiftly he worked.

“A little further still,” said Bilbo, and he sounded even more desperately hoarse than Thorin had.

He didn’t need much more encouragement, taking himself in a not entirely steady hand and holding steady. Before he could even think to offer a steadying palm about the curve of the hobbit’s arse, Bilbo was sliding down, flexing about Thorin’s length as he was taken deeper and deeper, almost unimaginably deep. He could do little more than gasp and shudder as his hand was firmly pushed out of the way and Bilbo settled himself comfortably, comfortably!, in Thorin’s lap. He barely even looked fazed, although his mouth hung open and his chest rose and fell in great shuddering breaths as he wriggled his hips.

Perhaps, Thorin thought with a remarkably clear head, that he had been hasty in judging hobbits as frail.

The clearness evaporated almost immediately, as Bilbo hitched his hips, just a little roll forward and backwards. Thorin’s hands flew to the hobbit’s hips and encouraged that movement again and again, without much prompting from his brain, until the movement was extravagant and toe-curlingly pleasurable. His cock was thoroughly encompassed in slick heat and then firmly massaged by a tight grip – Thorin dropped his head back to the duvet and let Bilbo ride him as he saw fit.

Even the view was spectacular; if he crooked his neck up, Thorin could see down the planes of his own body, to the shadowed place between them, where his cock vanished repeatedly into the curves of the hobbit’s arse. Above him, Bilbo was already flushed and sweating, sinking sharp teeth into his own lip and frowning in concentration as he rocked his hips at a different angle and then crying out as Thorin’s cock surged into him at a new angle. For a moment he looked almost too overcome to continue, but his own handsome cock was rock hard and remained so when Thorin thrust up again. They fell into an easy rhythm without much effort; Thorin let his head drop back again and listened to the slap and shift of them, like the chink of jeweller’s tools working to the core of a gem.

Bilbo was panting, his skin glimmering with sweat and oil and his legs trembling, tired of fucking himself on Thorin’s cock already. He seemed reluctant to give up though, bracing his hands on Thorin’s shoulders and clenching his hole about the dwarf’s cock as if trying to goad him on.

He clearly needed some more encouragement, but Thorin’s patience was too frayed. Instead, he chose to take matters into his own hands, gripped the hobbit’s waist and lifted him. Bilbo hit the mattress with an irked squeak, which turned into a shocked gasp when Thorin pushed his way behind his thighs and loomed down. He kissed the hobbit once and then hitched their hips together so his cock rubbed firmly against the hobbit’s loosened hole, teasing the edge in a manner that made them both moan.

“A hobbit’s best is impressive,” he growled into Bilbo’s ear, and smirking when the hobbit groaned in response. The sound was even better when he finally sank his cock back into the warm, willing hole, sinking to the base in one long slide, and he echoed in with a groan of his own. “But let me show you what a dwarf lord can do.”

He fucked the hobbit hard and fast, surging in as deep as he could before withdrawing; Bilbo shuddered and moaned and eventually cried on each thrust, bitten down fingernails driving into Thorin’s back where the muscle flexed powerfully. Never had Thorin fucked someone quite as hard as this, and it felt almost cruel to so this to such a small creature, but Bilbo threw his head back and revelled in the force upon him.

To ease his conscience, Thorin eased his weight up on one arm and reached between them to grasp the hobbit’s cock, which felt almost delicate in his calloused hand. Bilbo seemed to find this arrangement more than agreeable, especially when Thorin added a counterpoint to the flick of his wrist with short jabs of his cock. It took only but a few moments before Bilbo was clutching Thorin’s wrist with desperate hands as he came with a surprisingly deep groan. Thorin stroked him until he whimpered and settled his bodyweight back down again, his low belly smearing against the spend splashed on the hobbit’s stomach.

Now the sound was the heavy crash of hammers upon a rock as the bed frame rocked and creaked and Bilbo cried out with the taking. For Thorin, the noise was muffled as his mane of hair fell down over where his face was tucked into the curve of Bilbo’s throat. His pleasure was almost crushing, a great weight on his lower spine, and he had to muffle his roar as it became too much and he came. His hips continued to thrust jerkily for a few moments more, and then settled. Moving up and away was too much to even think of, and Bilbo did have his arms hooked over his neck, so Thorin relaxed and shivered pleasantly.

The mattress threatened to swallow Thorin whole when he finally collapsed sideways onto it, uncomfortably warm within moments. Beside him there was only the sound of Bilbo panting shakily, and the sounds continued long after Thorin’s breath had calmed to its normal pace. Eventually he thought that he should sit up and check the hobbit was all right and that he hadn’t fucked the poor creature into a heart attack, but when he looked Bilbo was sprawled amidst his sheets with a soft smile on his face.

He seemed to sense the dwarf’s gaze upon him and cracked an eye open before sighing and levering himself up.

“Well, that was informative,” he said, reaching over to reset one of Thorin’s braids behind his ear and then hopping up. Thorin watched him as he fussed about again; folding his clothes, wiping the ring of oil from the table and snuffing the candles. In the end there was only the red glow of the last wick lighting the room, and it cast more dark shadows than light. “I am going to sleep. Continue as you may and make yourself at home!”

And with that, with barely a second glance at the dwarf prince sitting naked on top of his bed, Bilbo Baggins pried his duvet back and tucked himself in. Thorin considered him for a long while, until the last candle finally burnt out and then fell asleep without ever really intending to.

 

* * *

 

Thorin surfaced from sleep as slowly as he ever had, ears urging him on even as the rest of his body was slow to respond. It took a few moments to realise that Balin was calling his name from the corridor outside, and a glance at the clock showed that morning had well settled in. He grunted a reply and set about extracting himself from the bed – the mattress was too soft and rolled alarmingly with his weight and somehow the duvet had entangled itself between his legs despite his waking up in the exact same position he had fallen asleep in. Bilbo Baggins slept soundly through the muffled cursing and then the clink of dwarven buckles being fixed back together, only moving to roll into the warm spot Thorin had left behind and tucking himself further under the covers.

Where previously the firelight had cast the hobbit in gold and amber, the morning sunlight through the curtains left him ruddy and solid. For a moment, Thorin considered shaking him awake and encouraging him to dress and join them, but in the end decided that the road was still no place for a hobbit, even as surprising as Bilbo Baggins.

It was a pity, he thought, and left without a word.

 

* * *

 

“Wait! Wait!” Someone was shouting. Thorin reined his pony about and could not stop his eyebrows from shooting upwards as Bilbo Baggins galloped towards them, waving the contract above his head like a war banner.

He didn’t even have a limp! Thorin was so befuddled he barely heard the rousing speech that caused even Dwalin to stiffen his spine and nod patriotically. Instead he waited until Balin had checked the contract, and the load was redistributed amongst their pack ponies so that the hobbit might have a mount. Then he drew near, sending his jovial nephews cantering off with a mere warning glare.

Joining us at last, Mr Baggins,” he said, as Bilbo scrambled onto the back of the spare pony. There wasn’t even the gratification of a wince as the hobbit dropped into the saddle. Bilbo fussed and rearranged his coat and tugged on his short trousers, until the rest of the Company had trotted ahead. “It shall be a long ride today,” Thorin warned.

“I am tougher than you think!” said the hobbit archly, simultaneously blushing to the tips of his ears. It was a curious mixture, one that reminded Thorin of the golden candlelight and the sharp fingertips clutching at his shoulders. “You shan’t get rid of me so easily. You shall have to get used to me!”

Perhaps it shall be two long rides today, Thorin thought, if they could find a suitable camping spot.

**Author's Note:**

> 'Whether we fall by ambition, blood, or lust,  
> Like diamonds, we are cut with our own dust.'  
> \- John Webster, English playwright.


End file.
